Swordplay in the moonlight
She could not sleep and so decides she will fly under the moon to her favourite spot. There have been many sleepless nights lately and she curses herself that she has not had the courage to go to her place earlier. But then the last trip left a mark on her, down her right side finishing just above her hip bone. The experience also left other marks, but those were less obvious.
It is cold as she steps out onto the grass, maybe the winter will come sooner after all. There is a slight breeze, it tickles the skin so that the hairs stand up on end, not from alarm but delight.
As she flies she sees little but that spot in her mind's eye. She must get there quickly, it is not safe to be in the air for too long. But this time the trip is uneventful, and she is there, in her heart place.
The trees sway slightly but beneath them in the small clearing she cannot feel the breeze. A different breeze to that gentle one standing outside her hut. This breeze travels from the oldest place, funnels its way between giant mountains, drawers on power from the frozen glaciers. It is a warning on the air. With it rides the truth.
Could the wind be whispering to her tonight? If she practices, if she is diligent maybe she will hear.
She takes the jian wrapped in her favourite cloth and unwraps it. She says a small prayer before removing it from the scabbard and the metal sighs as it is drawn. She takes the tassel attached to the pommel and places it round her right wrist. Today she will practice two handed, her right hand, and three fingers of her left.
She moves through the first steps, and notices her body resist. She is stiff, it has been too long since her last practice. It takes some minutes before she feels a flow, a warmth creeping into the muscles and with it she moves more easily. The second rotation is completed and now she moves through the third, and finishes with the stabbing movement, the jianfeng finding its mark glinting beneath the moon as the light catches the central edge. Breathing heavily the sword resting by her side, her hand loosely gripping the hilt, she is finished. She moves her focus inward and can feel her heartbeat at first pounding and crashing heavily and then moving more softly. She can feel her body at last healed from the attack.
She goes to the chorten and walks clockwise around the small collection of rocks. Again she wonders who put it there.
It is then she hears it, a wolf cry. From the west higher on the hill it comes to her delivered on the wind. There is a rising and falling to the howl with a sliding off the note at the end. It is a lonely sound. It is impossible to know how close the wolf is. She holds her breath and listens to see if the cry will be returned, turning her head to the east.
It is not. And the wolf does not cry again. She feels sad and is not sure why.
Perhaps now she will sleep. She has practiced well despite her stiffness. The old slashing wound to her side did not trouble her. She replaces the jian in the scabbard and covers it in her favourite cloth. Before she leaves she stops to listen again.
Nothing, not a whisper.
She leaves with a promise on her lips to return again soon.
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